


And thrown away the key

by TotemundTabu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Misogyny, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Unrequited Love, like implied/referenced not justified by the author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: Jon knew how it was to come out, you always have to understand who you have in front of you a bit. Not that Jon was afraid of violence, no. It was kindness that scared him, the fake, benevolent and soft kindness that tastes like sweet, rotten fruit in your mouth.The “oh, nowadays it’s really common, isn’t it”, the “oh, well, I’m a Christian, so...”, the “ahah just don’t hit on me dude”, the tense smiles that turn into coughing, the apparent gentleness but then the distance, physical and emotional, and the silence …





	And thrown away the key

**Author's Note:**

> I emerge from the pit of depression to give... you... this *laughs*.  
> I have to update stuff and write the beautiful prompts you sent me and I WILL, it's just hard times. I will, I promise.  
> So for June Janie_tangerine and I have put together a Canon LGBTA+ event and I did want to explore Jon C bit, I'm part of this community after all, so here I am :)   
> Title by Prisoner of your eyes, Judas Priest, you should check it!

**And thrown away the key**

 

* * *

 

_I cannot leave you, I'm just a prisoner of your eyes._

_As each day goes by, I've given up completely._

_I've locked myself inside your heart …_

 

* * *

 

 

He saw him and he was lost.

He knew it in a second.

He saw him – blond and elegant and lean, looking more like a fairytale prince than a real person – and, quickly, all at once, he knew it was already too late.

Robert’s room-mate’s smile signed the contract of his soul being thrown into the ocean and scattered – shattered like trash, a thing of no importance. He was of no importance, to himself too even, as he saw him.

Jon felt his throat dry up and his stomach twist tight like a wet towel, clenched and wrung out.

He let out a small, nervous, depthless laugh, while his eyes were nailed on him and couldn’t be unglued or screwed off without hollowing him out.

The man’s deep violet eyes shone with a fresh gleam, and Jon felt moonlight pooling in his heart.

“Rhaegar. - he introduced himself, softly – But you can call me Rhae.”

Jon nodded, weakly, bewildered, still feeling all lost without a place.

“Uh, Jon.”

“That’s nice. - he curled up his lips, looking phony yet friendly – Simple, clean.”

“Common, mostly.”, he shrugged.

Rhaegar laughed, crystalline and warm, “Oh, well. At least you avoided being called names in kindergarten, for sure.”

Jon swallowed, clenched his throat, trying not to confess that the first time someone called him a fag or faggot he was barely six. He knew how it was to come out, you always have to understand who you have in front of you a bit.

Not that Jon was afraid of violence, no. It was kindness that scared him, the fake, benevolent and soft kindness that tastes like sweet, rotten fruit in your mouth.

The “oh, nowadays it’s really common, isn’t it”, the “oh, well, I’m a Christian, so...”, the “ahah just don’t hit on me dude”, the tense smiles that turn into coughing, the apparent gentleness but then the distance, physical and emotional, and the silence … 

So then he had to spend the first days, at times weeks, doing some kind of points and clues count, to detect every hint for the yes or no on whether coming out would have been a good idea.

To his defence, stereotypes were bad, but he had enough bad coming outs in the 90s to want to avoid that stuff for a long while and Rhaegar was… contradictory at best.

He loved Greek and Roman statues and classic theatre: good sign. But he was a medievalist: bad sign. He was minoring in art: good sign. But it was sacred art: bad sign. He played a classical instrument: good sign. And feminine too, being the harp: so fucking good. But his favourite composer was Wagner: bad bad bad sign. He did have a The Smiths shirt: good sign. Seemed to ignore who Morrissey is: bad sign. He did read classics: good sign. But he was also really into military essays and conspiracy theories: bad sign bad sign bad sign.

He was unreadable.

Until one day, while Jon was cleaning his FLSTF Fat Boy out of the dorm, and Rhaegar popped up from behind him.

“Do you think Robert dislikes me?”

Jon startled, jolted up so quickly he almost tripped in the front and hit his forehead against the motorcycle.

“I beg your pardon?”

Rhaegar squatted next to him. That was weird.

He was usually so graceful and elegant, never a motion that didn’t look like a dance, and now there he was, arms wrapping his knees, staring a bit down, on the rock tiles of the dorm’s parking, as if the little green grass coming out of the cement was worth his attention, and a little pout on his splendid full lips.

“He doesn’t seem to like me much. - he admitted, almost in a whisper – But I’m not very good at reading people.”

Jon blinked, “How come?”

Rhaegar remained silent a moment, then Jon decided to continue cleaning his bike, as to leave him the time to gain the courage to speak up.

Soon, his voice came.

“I spent one year in kindergarten, because my mother insisted, but I… didn’t make many friends. - a little laugh – I suppose I was a bit too… bookish, maybe too fancy. - the laugh cracked, almost a soundless sob spilled through it – So my father decided I would have been home-schooled until University and… - a shrug – I’m not very good at … people.”

Jon bit his bottom lip, conveying all his determination not to tell him how he felt.

“I’m not very good at people either, but, - a rough sniff, he rubbed the back of his hand over his nose and grabbed the oil – For what it’s worth, school is not the most unbeatable offer life has to hand you.”

“He keeps speaking about Ned Stark. - he mumbled – He said it’s a shame they didn’t match up as room-mates.”

Jon blinked.

“Ned? - he frowned – As in, my room-mate Ned “I never speak a word unless I’m asked and resting serial killer face” Stark?”

At that, Rhaegar let out a small tender smile.

“Apparently. - a chuckle – They do hang out a lot.”

“Must be because Robert speaks for two.”, Jon mused, trying to amuse Rhaegar once more.

Rhaegar suckled his lips and Jon forced himself not to stare at the way they came out, wet and pink and hungry for bruising kisses.

“If you want to get along with Robert, you should find a common interest or maybe try to spend some time with him. - he advised, a bit bluntly, blurting out – Though, I think it would be better to focus on people you already get along with and whom you like already.”

“Like you?”

Jon almost choked on air.

He turned, terrified, and saw the most oblivious, innocent look in Rhaegar’s eyes.

“You… do?”

For a moment, as an idiot, he hoped.

Rhaegar nodded, smiling, “You’re easy to talk to. Plus you don’t seem to have that much of a social life either so… - indelicately soft as always, he mumbled – I’m taking you see me as a friend too.”

How idiotic.

Of course.

_Friend._

Jon let out a weak, tired smile, “Yeah. I think so.”

Rhaegar stood up then, all proud and, despite his calm voice and expression, Jon had learned to read him enough to see through his sound a thrill of excitement and a gleam of cheerfulness in his eyes, “Then we should exchange room-mates, shouldn’t we?”

Jon still wouldn’t be able to say which foolish idiocy took him.

Maybe it was hunger, desperation for a couple of moments more in the day with him.

Maybe it was the fact he wasn’t sure how to say ‘no’ to him.

Regardless, it was masochistic beyond belief.

“Yes… that would be something.”

 

*

 

In his defence, Jon did actually, for a time, think being friends would have been enough and that he could have managed staying friends just fine.

He had had crushes on straight men before, he knew it was just a matter of time, and then they would be washed away. 

His heart would have come out clean of it like sand after waves melt sand castles and footprints of undeserving strangers.

He really believed that.

What a fool.

It took two days and Rhaegar walking out with just a towel around his waist for Jon to realize he fucked up; but at that point coming out and confessing was not an option, he would have seemed like a pervert who hoped to get some free, naked fanservice or a desperate creep. So he shut up. And made it harder.

And made himself harder too.

Rhaegar must have had the same concept of male intimacy and friendship as a nineteen century scholar upon coming to read of ancient Greece: he was most unaware of the achillean implications of his movements or revealing outfit choices, absolutely oblivious to Jon’s glances, and more prone to touch and suggest than any straight man should be when undressed.

He was not awfully sportive, more of a bookworm and music dandy than anything, but when he’d join Jon for a morning jog, he’d always ask if after he wanted to shower together or if Jon needed help applying some body oil.

Body oil.

A straight man offered to oil him up.

Jon knew then in his past life he must had been awfully cruel.

He must had done something to earn such ill luck.

Another thing he found out about Rhaegar was his absurd tendency to barely-standing theories. He was really into mythology and interested in different prophecies and apocalyptic and eschatological myths from every culture. He had a soft spot for most absolutely incongruent conclusions for historical theories.

He seemed to have no familiarity with the concept of Occam’s razor.

Which soon led Jon to the most dramatic conclusion: however suspicious his actions were, Rhaegar would have probably never guessed his crush.

Which was good luck, indeed.

And yet he felt sad about it.

 

*

 

When Rhaegar introduced him to Elia, Jon felt close to dying.

He knew he had no hope, he always had known.

But seeing him smile at someone else, so tenderly, so lost, was a searing knife dicing up his guts.

Rhaegar was madly in love with her.

He’d hold her waist, caress her hair, sing to her, even in public.

Jon would have just wanted to hate her. For real.

But he couldn’t find a flaw – she was sweet, kind, pretty, smart, funny, even. Her only flaw was not being… utterly perfectly, like Rhaegar was.

But who was?

Nobody.

Nobody could compare.

And nobody was worthy of him.

Jon bit his tongue bitter and bloody, tasting iron in his mouth every time he stared at those two, like lovebirds, or waited without waiting in the bedroom for Rhaegar to come back while perfectly knowing he wouldn’t have left her until dawn.

He would torture himself daydreaming of Rhaegar leaving her, seeing her and realize that no, he couldn’t do it.

It’s not like Jon even dared to consider himself an alternative to Elia.

He knew fairly well that Rhaegar was never going to love him. He was not only unworthy but out of context.

But still… it was easier to live with him alone than with him and the spectre of a woman.

Elia’s ghost would sit on his stomach.

Elia’s ghost would eat his heart slowly, gouge on it.

Elia’s ghost would remind him of how unloved he was.

And she had no fault but that matters none to a blinded heart.

And she had no fault but he was heartbroken all the same, unable to put the pieces back together, as blood kept dripping and confusing the hems and limits.

Jon didn’t ask for much. Just rest.

Rhaegar, though, didn’t seem to even be aware of the problem – he would come back in the room smiling, half-singing or even reciting poems, opening the curtains and asking Jon how he had slept, before telling him about his gorgeous day with Elia.

Elia who got all Jon wanted.

“I don’t like her much.”, Jon mumbled, before walking out of bed and trying to find a clean shirt and jeans.

“How come? - Rhaegar blinked, his hair perfectly falling on the side of his face, like platinum blond waterfalls, his indigo eyes shining – You could get along.”

Jon found himself swallowing rusty steel nails and they pierced his guts.

“She’s not that smart.”

Rhaegar frowned, “She is. And sweet, and kind.”

“Look. - Jon scoffed, hurt, a sharpness in his wounded voice – Agree to disagree.”

“I don’t!”

Jon blinked, confused, “...you… cannot not… agree to disagree? It’s like...”

“I want an explanation.”

Jon’s lips unlocked, his jaw dropped an inch. He hesitated.

Should he have said it?

Shame painted his face and the tips of his ears red and he bit his lips.

Rhaegar’s eyes went wide. A gleam.

“… oh. Of course.”

His voice was so thin, so frail.

Stretched.

Jon flinched, tried to move, to jolt, to rebel. But he couldn’t move. He had dreaded that moment for so long, imagined it to come with so much horror.

And there it was, visible and true and all over his skin, thick as wax, cutting his breathing.

“How stupid of me. - Rhaegar said again, shaking his head, avoiding looking Jon in the eyes – I should have guessed.”

Jon unfroze. He moved up, he looked at Rhaegar.

For a moment, he considered kissing him, slamming him against the wall, driving through his mouth, filling him.

Then again, he didn’t even have the courage to hold his wrist.

“No, I… please, Rhae, don’t take it as...”

He didn’t even know what to say exactly.

No words could cover his shame, his vulnerability, how naked he felt.

Then Rhaegar smiled, tenderly, his sweet tender smile. “I didn’t consider how bad mannered it is of me to insist on you judging a woman, after all. - he shrugged and then facepalmed slightly, hitting his forehead – I was so silly, look. - he then moved and held Jon’s hands delicately and his enthusiastic voice was thrilled – We totally need to introduce you to someone too. Elia has a brother. We should do one of those… how do people call them? Double dates?”

Jon was not sure if he was hallucinating that.

His lips quivered.

“You … know I’m…?”

“Into men? - Rhaegar tilted his head and blinked, then shrugged, amused – Of course I do!”

At first, Jon found himself slightly angry: if he had known why hadn’t he said anything?

Then he realized that Rhaegar was either waiting for him to come out and was respecting his time or didn’t even see the thing as something that needed to be declared out loud.

He smiled, slightly.

“Since… since when?”

“Uh. - Rhaegar squinted his eyes as if it were a trick question – I feel like how hard you rolled your eyes in Ancient Greek when people were wondering how two men even did it kind of gave it away.”

And yet he didn’t guess that he liked him?

How could someone be that smart and that dumb at the same time?

Oblivious silver prince …

“You don’t need to introduce me to anyone, really.”

“Do you have someone you like?”

“No, of course not.”

 

*

 

Rhaegar and Elia had picked a four place table at a small cafè, Rhaegar had ordered and poured wine, Elia’s voice had soon turned into a soft song that Jon couldn’t divide into words properly – all Jon could record was Rhaegar watching someone as he would never watch him and a man next to him, looking at him – seeing him! - speaking softly to him, warm and seductive, his long hair falling to the side, beautiful as can be.

He didn’t look like Rhaegar at all.

Dark, a low charm, a black, wet flame. His skin was bronze and his hands calloused and big.

He didn’t look like Rhaegar at all.

And maybe that helped.

Oberyn’s eyes were dark enough for him to see not even a trace of indigo in them.

“So… - his mellow voice hit him like a whip – Since when do you and Rhaegar know each other?”

“Uh. A year. I guess.”

A year, six months, one week, three days. Not that he counted.

“A year and half at least! - Rhaegar corrected him and Jon forced his lips not to curl up in a smile – We are room-mates.”

“Oh. I see. - Oberyn smirked, glancing at how Jon’s hand trembled imperceptibly or how he couldn’t look at Elia – You two must get along well, then.”

Oberyn guessed at the first moment.

Oberyn studied him, like a viper studies a mouse before catching it in it’s cave, and he circled him like one runs their fingers on the rim of a lit candle, tasting the soft heat of the wax on the skin’s hem.

And Jon let him, feeling for the first time in a long time the pleasurable thrill of being on the edge of a razor.

He bled out.

What are inhibitions for if you lose anyway?

“We do, yes.”

“He’s lucky. - Oberyn objected, in a thin grin, cocky – Seeing you every day.”

Oberyn’s smirk was lopsided and wine made Jon’s head light and spinny. He smiled back.

He had spent so long engulfed by silver, drenched by metal, that Oberyn’s darkness felt light and familiar and kind.

Elia smiled at them, as if that was washing away the pain she provoked, as if she had cleansed her undirty unguilty hands from the blood she had drawn out of Jon. And Jon hated her a bit for it.

But he hated her more for being unable of despising her.

“Really now?”

“Really.”

Elia grinned and pulled Rhaegar by the arm.

“Let’s go. - she whispered, secretly, but Jon guessed enough – Leave them alone.”

And Jon wanted to object. To call Rhae back.

But Oberyn’s hand was on his thigh.

He hadn’t felt desired in so long … it had hurt him enough. It left him starving.

Not even for sex, for value. For worth. For some vague desperate sort of perception he existed.

For being seen.

Oberyn’s fingers traced the rim of the glass and Jon felt those fingers run down his ribcage, pierce his skin and drown in his heat.

He smirked, with those plump plum lips he had, his caramelized sugar voice scorching him and sweetening him all at the same time. It boiled under his skin.

“I’m not blind. - he curled his lips up – But I don’t need it to be anything serious.”

Jon blinked slowly, “I’m not sure I’m the type for this...”

“Anyone is the type for pleasure, for how temporary.”

His glance slid on Oberyn’s skin, it weighted the honey in his voice and the poison in the thought of Rhaegar kissing someone else.

Nights had been desolated too long.

His heart had turned to a silver desert. And he craved rain.

“So, what do you suggest?”

“Running away. - Oberyn murmured – As soon as they’re not watching.”

And Jon felt the earth spin again under his feet with a weird fever, when Oberyn looked at him.

As if he could actually see him.

He had forgotten he was visible.

 

*

 

Oberyn and him went on and off for months.

Jon had taken an acquainted taste to guilt, its sour sweetness had turned familiar, present, welcoming.

They respected the rules firmly: it was open, protected, simple sex.

Oberyn had others, men and women alike, and Jon couldn’t care any less, his only need was someone to be there when Rhaegar and Elia had a date night and he was not planning to come back.

The solitude of staring at the blue, moonlit ceiling, knowing Rhaegar was tying his hair and going down on her cunt was too much for him to resist; Jon needed an escape, he needed a painkiller.

And Oberyn was honey-coated self-harm.

He had even considered a threesome, once, despite his absolute homosexuality, once he had seen Ellaria - “she looks like Elia”, he had thought, and that meant he could dream more easily once in bed. But he never had the guts.

One thing was asking Oberyn, who knew, to be the razor he could cut his spleen out on, one was to involve someone in a game she was not informed about.

Plus … Jon had, at times, had the arrogance to feel Rhaegar’s look burning them, perhaps in anger or judgment, but he had never asked.

He had felt guilty. Like he was playing a bit too long with fire.

Like Rhaegar was going to lose respect for him, seeing him so… lovelessly wanton.

But seeing him smile when he saw Elia tasted like biting into a raw, green kiwi, the sourness coating his teeth with a cold, acid film.

He had to survive Elia existing.

He had to survive Rhaegar loving someone else.

And if that way was going to be fucking Oberyn in the back of a car or rushing to cheap motels, drinking redbulls in between cheap fucks and smoking tired Camels, he was gonna do that.

And if the way was being bitter and wishing Elia would just disappear, he was going to.

Hearts are not correct.

They are all rotten glass, shattering or putrefying, depending on the day.

On whether  _lust_ or _lost_ or _last_ was the word knocking on their mind in the cold morning or at the bottom of a beer stain.

There was no awakening of correctness cleaning away his pain.

He could try to catch him back from thinking badly, but that was just the brackish undertow of his own self-deprecation slapping salt in his wounds.

There was no way of hiding it anymore.

He loved him, he loved Rhaegar – and loving a straight person was the single stupidest thing he had ever done. He had signed up for pain that couldn’t be undone, for a love he didn’t know how to get over because he couldn’t live it and see it fail and crumble.

How do you survive maybes? How do you digest perhaps? How do you escape if onlys?

It was a bear trap he sat his heart in, like the stupid motherfucker he was.

He had to bear Elia, then.

And no matter how many times he could see Rhaegar walking out of the bathroom, just a skimpy lilac towel at his toned waist, his hair wet with droplets of melted, steaming desire, his hands running through the sheets, as he’d lay down a moment, before dressing and going to lesson; there wasn’t going to be a time he would roll up the sheets and come to him, and kiss him, no day he was going to tell him to come and take him just like he was, not ever one where he was going to sit on his lap and ride him until they both would have run to the shower again.

He could dream.

But it was plunging nails into his palms.

Hadn’t he crucified himself enough?

Hadn ’t he hurt himself enough for self-respect to barge in and save him?

Was there a limit he hadn’t crossed yet for that sterile love? Condemned to have his heart trapped in a lukewarm pond as he was, could anyone have blamed him for grabbing the first icy tempest instead of a boiling ocean? What happened had happened.

Rhaegar was not going to love him anyway.

He was not going to be happy anyway.

He might as well had had some painkillers.

 

*

 

“I have to tell you something.”, Rhae told him after days of weirdly looking at him and avoiding Elia.

Jon raised an eyebrow.

Did he notice that she’s not enough for him? That nobody is? He hoped.

Rhaegar let out a small smile, thin and shy.

And then lowered his head.

And Jon felt his stomach gulped down in his abdomen, drowning in a clench of darkness.

“You know that girl I’m tutoring?”

“ _The high-school student_?”, Jon asked, in between bewildered and horrified.

What could a high-school kid offer to his Rhaegar?

What could she even hope to give him? Had she even ever had… she was a child, basically. An insipid, tasteless child.

“I thought you and Elia were… - his voice clenched and crawled, he felt his throat wanting to commit suicide – Considering engagement.”

“We were. She was. I… - a pause, his eyes rush to Jon, nervously – But Lyanna… she understands me more, you know?”

Jon tried to muffle a scream, he let out only a pained groan.

He did understand Rhaegar. Better than anyone. It had never counted.

Why did it count now?

When it was a sixteen year old, to feel that way?

Jon sucked his lips, bit them, forced and choked a thin, gritty, tired smile out of them.

“So… what do you count to do?”

“I’ll break up with Elia of course. - he said, as if that was the most obvious thing to do – I cannot be with her while I love someone else.”

Love?

Did Rhaegar even know what love was?

“She’s a teen, though. - Jon can’t help but point out – Maybe this is just… you know, a small crush, sometimes even taken people get them.”

“If I loved Elia for real, if it were true love, this wouldn’t happen.”

True love, he said.

Like a child.

Like a fairytale prince.

And Jon felt love engulfing his lungs, taking over him once again.

And he was trapped in the sticky honey of that voice.

“So… you think with this… girl, instead, it’s meant to be or something?”

Rhaegar looked at him, confused, as if he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not.

“Don’t you believe in it?”

“I believe you, that’s not the point...”

“I mean love, Jon. - he said, his voice so soft, but Jon could have driven a slap through that oblivious brain of his – Don’t you?”

He would have liked to scream.

To shout and pierce his ears deaf and throw him on the bed and kiss him and take him there now.

Did he have a fucking choice?

Did he have one moment he was allowed not to believe in that torture?

He hated every instant of it.

And Rhaegar, dumb, stupid, splendid, sweet, romantic Rhaegar, he would just still believe and jump into it like a fish in boiling water.

And he loved him and hated him all the same.

And hated himself for being unable to stand up against it.

“… of course.”

Rhaegar smiled wide and slapped his back, enthusiastic.

“You always get me.”

He had no choice but to.

Losing him would have been worse than being complicit of his horrifically careless actions.

He breathed out.

“So. Tell me.”

Rhaegar’s eyes shone. About someone else, again. About silly Lyanna Stark.

Jon could feel his skin disappear, all of him turning invisible all over again.

He never called Oberyn again.

 

*

 

Droplets of rain fell from his skin, they glistered under the sun peeking from the clouds.

Summer thunderstorms, wetting them and leaving behind the heat grilling their skins.

Rhaegar laughed like a child and shook his long hair.

August was glimmering in his light.

He was all the beauty in the world, all the grace.

Jon had often felt beauty was a thing for fools to follow, like spending too much for a hairdresser or designer suits, he did acknowledge the beauty of cathedrals or paintings, but he wouldn’t understand devoting his life to it.

And then Rhaegar, his Rhae, came along. And it was like he had discovered he had been blind for years.

Beauty was in how the light and the shadows sing painting a body, how the rain falls and jumps on the tender skin, how a smile twists a stomach in a knot just by fending open.

Beauty was not complicated or expensive or distant.

Beauty was how breathless he was when Rhaegar closed his eyes and rested his head on his shoulder, napping in the sun, unaware and peaceful as if he had not one worry in the universe.

“You’ll burn like this.”, Jon choked out, his voice strained.

Rhaegar smiled, breathed in the scent of the green grass shining before under the summer rain and now the summer sunlight, dipping and scooping the emerald strings out of the softly scented dirt.

Murk and musk ran down in the river waters.

It was peaceful, it was fresh and hot together.

Rhaegar laughed, his eyes still closed. “Just a bit, just a moment.”

Shouldn't I be the one praying?, Jon wondered, but he dared not to ask out loud.

Rhaegar had a skin like snow and milk, prickled with light, rosy freckles. He got sunburnt easily and Jon knew that too well.

Last summer he had to see him peeling off skin and whining on the bed.

He had never loved anyone more than that man, so graceful and so childish, so wise and so stubborn, so elegant and so simple.

He had never loved anyone more than that man, who was never going to want him back.

“You’ll burn.”

“Hush. - Rhaegar whispered, smiling, his eyelashes so long that Jon felt like kissing them – This is my place now.”

“My shoulder or the woods?”

“Both. It’s my palace.”

Jon laughed, amused and warmed all together, “A palace of wood and grass.”

“And friends.”, Rhaegar pointed out, without opening his eyes, without flinching.

Jon felt his lungs twirl and the air leave his ribcage.

He mouthed something, his lip quivering, but he dared not give it voice.

“Don’t worry. - Rhaegar promised, softly – We will go back to study soon.”

That was what worried him most.

The reality they had to return to.

They couldn’t live frozen in that moment, over a towel in the woods, with Rhaegar in a ruby red swimsuit and his wet hair dripping on his shoulder and a smile painted on his thulian pink lips.

No.

They had to return.

“Do you love her?”, he asked.

He hadn’t noticed the words slipping from his mouth until they did. They rolled out so slimy and quick.

They were silver, like Rhae was.

And now, though, the trail they left on his mouth and throat burned and hurt. And it felt heavy like a cock on his tongue.

Rhaegar opened his eyes, blinked, frowned, confused. Like a deer hearing the hunter’s footsteps for the first time.

“Yes. - he paused, his eyes run on Jon’s lips, and Jon was unsure if he was watching those or the words that had spilled out of it – Of course.”

Then Rhaegar swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumped and he looked away all at once.

Then he stood up, nervous, but not angry.

Jon’s eyes left his figure and rested and lingered on his own shoulder, where Rhaegar had been before.

“Of course I do.”, he repeated.

 

*

 

He didn’t have the courage to meet Lyanna Stark.

He had hated her more than he ever hated Elia.

Because Lyanna left him.

And that Jon couldn’t understand. She had the luck to have Rhaegar love her, blindly madly even, and then, one day, she disappeared, went back to his family and refused to talk to him further. Just like that.

And Rhaegar had returned home with his eyes swollen red and a runny nose for weeks.

His Rhaegar was crying for her.

Jon hated her.

 

*

 

Rhaegar did it the first time when it was raining outside and the termosyphone broke.

September was knocking on their windows, slapping the thin glass of the university dorm, the tempest storming outside and the whistle of chilly wind entering through the wood.

Rhaegar had always liked the heat more than the cold.

Despite burning easily, Jon had witnessed Rhaegar basically grilling himself alive like a cat under the sunlight. He hated winter.

But he didn’t ask.

He just slipped in the bed, silent, feline, as the wind blew angry and frozen.

Jon had jolted, almost scared. His heart was pulsing so fast he was sure it’d betray him.

Rhaegar made a little grimace, almost frowning, holding Jon from the back in a soft hug.

“Do you mind?”, he asked, weakly.

His nose was runny and his voice round and hoarse with a throatache already baking inside him.

Jon sucked his lips.

He prayed his cock not to react but he knew it would have happened, so he just prayed for Rhaegar not to notice.

“Are you that cold?”

Rhaegar nodded.

“Then it’s okay.”, he whispered.

Jon could feel Rhaegar’s breath through the thin cotton of his shirt. It tickled with fire.

He could feel Rhaegar’s hands curling and entwining across his chest, like a thorn crown of bliss.

He could feel Rhaegar’s hips and lips both so close to him – if he had just turned, if he had just pushed a bit further …

Fire, through his veins.

It consumed and leaped and burnt.

It was pleasure and pain all together, mixing in, fuel and spark.

And when Rhaegar’s breath faltered in the trembling night, azure bleaching and bathing them in moonlight, the orange of the car’s reflectors cutting through the night quickly just to disappear as fast, Jon knew his heart was about to implode, tripping between its ribs and pouring all out.

It felt absurd. And perfect.

Rhaegar’s warmth was a white-hot beam in the night.

Jon widened his eyes and turned slightly, as much as the position allowed him to, checking on his shoulders, seeing Rhaegar almost asleep against his back.

He made a low sound, like a purring cat napping and searching for cuddles.

Jon knew he was about to die.

That was as close to happiness as he was ever going to be.

And he could still feel his heart break over and over.

Every instant a shard fell in his guts and sunk through his silence and there got buried.

Rhaegar’s cold feet played sleepily and sheepishly with his.

He smelled like tangerines and sandalwood.

Jon didn’t sleep very well that night.

Nor the following. Nor the rest of the week.

Rhaegar’s breath scorched his dreams, called him awake, shook him hard and desperate.

He would start his days without having slept, his eyes heavy and annoyed at the first puked, spikey ray of sunlight dribbling across his eyes, nailing and hollowing them out. He slipped out of Rhaegar’s grasp, with all the regret making his mouth bitter, and would stare at him with a love he didn’t know he had.

He would then run to the shower, trying to fix the hard discomfort turning his pants into a tent, jerking muffled by the water spraying and rushing. And he would bend, lean against the wall with his arm, rest his forehead on it and buckle his hips, fucking his hand harder and faster – it was not soft and hot as it would have been inside Rhae, never like that – choke a grunt and bite his bottom lip sore and cut and swollen.

He’d come and sigh Rhaegar’s name with a hoarse moan that dies in the whirl-pooling drain.

He calls him but he never comes.

He called him always with a gag of regret and guilt in his mouth.

And he held that name close to him, to his heart, like a teardrop never let out.

 

*

 

Rhaegar laughed when Jon tried to play the harp with terrible results.

He laughed, shook his head and leaned on the wall, as if he had never seen anything so amusing in his life.

“I may not be exactly born for this.”

“You definitely aren’t.”

Jon scoffed, faking offence, “I have other talents, okay?”

Rhaegar looked to him, his mouth losing the smile and his lips turning tumid, wet, as he sucked them.

“Like?”, he asked.

Jon blinked. Confused.

“Uh, hm.”

Rhaegar let out an uncomfortable chuckle, “I mean, I’m not sure burning instant noodles is worth the Worlds Record list.”

Jon nodded nervously.

What had he thought? How idiotic of him.

He let out a laugh and tried to play it smooth, but a nervous, feverish crave was already making his blood boil.

He could imagine grabbing Rhaegar by the waist and… he was wearing a thin cotton indigo pullover that they had bought together in London once, and he had skinny jeans of the lightest blue, he looked like a prince of sapphire. He was wearing his hair in a soft bun – Jon imagined pulling on his hair, while pushing and thrusting into him, seeing Rhaegar’s neck curl, arch in a choked moan – with some curls falling near his ears, like marbled, wet drapery in the moonlight – he wanted to slam him against the walls, to lift his legs, to drag his teeth along the line of his neck, through the torturous drumming of their heartbeats and the voracious fasting of their breaths, and drag the purple from his veins onto his skin, to paint him all.

From ivory to violet.

From untouched to his.

The corner’s of Rhaegar’s mouth twitched weakly.

His eyes seemed to rest on Jon’s beard or chin.

Jon rubbed it, as if to take away something from it, but felt nothing.

“I make great wookie noises.”

“...great what?”

“Wookie noises. Wookie. Chewbacca. - a pause, a blink, he squinted his eyes, then, tentatively – Star wars?”

“Oh. - Rhaegar replied, inexpressive, then he swallowed – Oh, yes, umh, never saw it.”

“...you never watched Star Wars?”

“No.”

“H… how?”

“My… - his voice sounded thin – My father didn’t like television, so we didn’t have it, and he was not really fond of films.”

Now, Rhaegar’s love for theatre seemed sadder, so much more limited, so much pushed.

“We can watch it together, if you want.”

Rhaegar blinked, “I’m… isn’t it bothersome?”

“Only if you forbid me from making wookie noises.”

Rhaegar smiled softly.

His eyes slipped again on Jon’s jawline.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”, Jon replied, his voice faltering.

And so they tried.

The blue light from the screen dyed the room like a peaceful deep neon aquarium.

Rhaegar’s eyes were open wide in amazement and he kept being as still as a salt-sculpture, attentive to every move on the screen.

Jon preferred to stare at him.

At his lines, running from the corners of his face to the neck, drawing muscles and tendons, playing with the beauty of bones, his skin slightly harsher where he shaved and softer where hairless. His eyes shone bright with fun.

And the little peek of skin Jon could see on the v-neck of the pullover twisted his stomach up.

God, he was so beautiful.

His eyes tripped and lingered on Rhaegar’s stomach, the softness of the curve, the way it moved with his breath.

When he lifted his glance again, he found Rhaegar was looking back at him, his eyes wide, his lips quivering ever so faintly.

In the twilight, Jon dared stare at Rhaegar in the eyes.

His perfect grace was a slap to his heart.

His chest opened. It cracked.

And the light he breathed in hurt like alcohol and salt in his pulsing wounded flesh, bleeding out hope.

Rhaegar trembled. His hair fell on his shoulders.

He was so close, for the first time, Jon could see the freckles on his face arrived to the eye line, paler than their back and cheek sisters, smaller.

His heartbeat was dull, dim din, drumming, drilling into his skull.

He felt the vertigo sweeping him from under his feet.

Rhaegar’s Adam’s apple jumped, as he stayed still. His lips were wet, lucid in the liquid. cold light of the screen.

Jon felt the air thrill in his lungs, nail and screw them to his spine. Electricity stung his nostrils.

He had to move, and yet he was paralysed.

He felt the red run off his hair and age rushing through his skin and he felt so old and so static and like such a coward. And Rhaegar was too beautiful for him.

And Rhaegar’s lips twitched slightly, and he moved back just an inch.

Air left Jon’s lungs, and all he could do was let out a breathless sigh.

And then he felt them.

Warm, soft, perfect.

And Rhaegar’s lips trembled against his; he was pressing with his face, as if he had never kissed anyone, suddenly as afraid as he had never been, the knot in his throat jumping up and down.

Jon felt himself about to shiver and shatter.

But as Rhae seemed to move away, flames returned to his heart.

Jon closed his eyes, grabbed Rhaegar by the nape and pressed their mouths together harder.

Haste. Hunger. Hurt.

Greed flooded his veins, and he wanted that moment to never stop. He felt everything and nothing all at once, as peace and ecstasy and terror danced too close to one another.

He pushed and pressed, feeling Rhaegar kissing him back, his lips shier, peppering quickly and harshly and full of need. Jon pushed his tongue through the crack of his mouth and invaded him.

And Rhaegar let him, letting out the smallest moan, muffled by the big tongue, eyes closed and lost.

Jon was not sure if he was dreaming, when he felt Rhaegar’s tongue following his own.

On the edge of night, he grasped Rhaegar’s hair and pulled him close.

He could touch it, he could feel him. Kiss him.

Rhaegar’s voice, distorted by bliss and arousal, muffled by their mouths, echoed through his mouth; and Jon chugged down his moans and held him close.

Rhaegar whimpered then, uncomfortable as he struggled to breathe, to move, and Jon felt his hand turning to steel.

He couldn’t let him go.

He was never going to have him again.

… but he had to.

When he felt Rhaegar’s voice turning high pitched and hurt in his mouth, Jon moved away, afraid.

Was he going to lose him? Forever?

Had he dared too much? Rose too high?

Had he, like Icarus, tried to caress the sun and burned his wax wings?

He could almost feel it, the wax on his fingertips, tickling away.

Rhaegar’s opened his eyes. They were shining, low, surprised, confused. His chest was moving quickly, as he panted quietly.

Rhaegar’s eyes caressed the blue void.

Then they brushed Jon’s jaw again.

And Rhaegar’s hand touched it, ever so gently, the thumb running on Jon’s kissed, bruised lips, while scraping softly the copper strands of the stubble.

And then Rhaegar moved closer again, catching his mouth back.

The voices from the screen turned into background whispers but Jon could still recognize them.

“I love you.” “I know.”

 

*

 

He woke up with his lips aching to be touched, pained by the weightless air.

Rhaegarless.

He turned, slowly, just to see the sofa empty next to him and the television turned off. The last thing he could remember was Han being turned to carbonyte memorabilia, and kissing Rhaegar, pushing him on the sofa, rolling one over the other, hands rushing under clothes to caress, but not to undress.

He could still feel the glimmering leftovers of the fever of Rhaegar’s kisses on his body.

It stung good.

Like the scalding shiver of a hot bath.

Jon breathed slow, rubbing his eyes.

Had he dreamt it? And if he had, then why did it linger?

But if he hadn’t… where was Rhae? Where did he go?

Jon’s glance fell on his hands.

Had he broken it all? Ruined it so easily and so simply? Was his freedom and joy coming at the price of it all, forever?

Had his first gesture of courage been his last moment with Rhaegar?

Was Rhaegar running to Robert Baratheon or Ned Stark, begging to change rooms again? No, no way. Robert had a thing for Ned’s sister too and neither of them had forgiven Rhaegar for that fling they had.

Maybe he went to Dayne. Or Lannister.

He liked them.

They liked him for sure. Lannister – James? Jaime? Whatever – likes him like Jon does and they both knew that.

He definitely asked them to change rooms, to make him safe, away from that … had he become the predatory gay man that people paint in their minds?

Did he drag his teeth through the flesh and consume blood as he pleased? Had he fed off of Rhaegar?

Had he been the butcher lion to the straight lamb?

Or was he just a stupid child with a crush?

Where did his innocence end and his mistakes begin? Limits were blurred, lines deleted by waves, and the sand painted a picture of nothingness.

Had he touched heaven and corrupted it all?

It fell in his hands the dust of all the sweet misery he could have had living with Rhaegar instead of the haunting hollowing void he had to bear now.

“I love you.” “I know.”

Jon sunk his head between his fingers, cursing himself.

“I fucked up.”, he murmured, choking on dry tears.

He moved up from the sofa in the room and headed to his bed with a heavy chest. He should have done his luggage, prepared everything, so that when Rhaegar came back, he could have left quickly.

Without burdening Rhaegar even with that.

He had done that enough.

Hadn’t he?

Had he?

He shouldn’t have slept but something in his brain had shut off. He needed it. He needed to disappear, to not feel.

For five minutes, just five minutes, he needed to stop feeling.

He had felt enough.

He had enough.

 

*

 

“Jon?”

Jon squinted his eyes, annoyed by the light – artificial, white – of a mobile torch pointed at his face. Then he registered the sweet voice.

“Rhae?”

“Thank god. - he breathed out, sighing in relief, a hand on his chest – I thought you fell ill. You slept for hours.”

Never trust a nap.

Jon cleared his voice, his eyes trailing and lingering on Rhaegar’s body. His hair was barely kept in a bun unravelling in soft silvery curls. The white shirt he was wearing was lightly stained in something transparent – water? sweat? - though not fully wet, and it allowed Jon to see through it slightly.

On Rhaegar’s arms veins traced and ran to the others, to knot together in blue ribbons.

And his soft pillowy lips looked shiny and bruised red.

Jon felt a pang of shame noticing Rhaegar’s neck had the signs of his attack too.  
“I’m… sorry.”

Rhaegar frowned, confused.

“For the nap?”

Jon coughed, chuckled, choked, “For … yesterday night?”

Rhaegar squinted his eyes, “… forgive me, am I missing something?”

Jon wondered if Rhaegar had decided to play fully in total denial of what happened; and normally, once, he would have allowed it to happen, but not this once.

It meant too much to him.

“I kissed you.”

Rhaegar’s eyebrows met and his look turned strict.

“For how I remember it, we kissed each other.”

What?

Jon felt his jaw drop, a mumbled, fumbled, shapeless protest came out of his lips, while Rhaegar sat on the bed next to him.

“Did I hurt you?”

Jon shook his head.

“No, how… could you?”

Rhaegar frowned, “I don’t get why you’re apologizing. - he admitted, a fearful, shy thrill in his voice – You’re not… mad at me, are you?”

“What? No, no, no! - Jon almost jolted up, sitting and holding Rhaegar’s hands – I… I was just afraid I scared you off, I mean… you are… not like me? So…”

Rhaegar looked annoyed.

“Well, evidently, it doesn’t matter much.”

Jon scoffed, “What does that even mean?”

Rhaegar’s cheeks turned an ashamed cherry colour.

“I felt like it. - he bit his bottom lip – I still feel like it. I know you’re all labels and things set in stone, but… it just felt good.”

Jon snorted, trying not to sound angry and failing, “Felt good à la two drunk girls making out in a disco?”

Rhaegar then seemed downright outraged and shouted, “Felt good à la you were always there for me and close and I feel safe and you’re important to me, you… squid dick head.”

Jon blinked.

His voice got all small.

“… what kind of insult is that?”

“I don’t know. - Rhaegar admitted, looking away – I panicked.”

Jon smiled tentatively.

His hand moved to Rhaegar’s locks, falling on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a squid dick head.”

Rhaegar didn’t seem convinced, “I wouldn’t use you like that. Like comfort food or random warmth.”

“I should have known. - Jon mumbled, his eyes nailed to Rhae’s lips – I apologize.”

Rhaegar’s hand went to Jon’s chin, caressing the copper stubble, feeling the pleasing scratch under his fingertips, before bowing forwards and brushing their lips together, ever so gently.

“I also don’t know what I’m doing. - he confessed, on the verge of Jon’s lips – But I promise I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jon nodded, slow, then quick, then his lips unlocked and he welcomed Rhaegar’s warm tongue inside.

He moaned against the smouldering silk of Rhaegar’s kiss.

Jon’s hand pushed him slightly on the bed with him, under him. He held him down without constrictions, without force. Just with his own gravity.

Rhaegar swallowed, sucking his lips, passing his teeth over the soft wetness of his lips.

He trembled.

Moonlight painted him in the soft, dewy blue and his heartbeat quivered, saturated in tension.

He moved his fingers, caressing Jon’s face, the tender scratch of the stubble, the sweet roughness of the copper wires – and he breathed out, almost in a soundless sob.

Jon squinted his eyes. Hesitated.

Would he have broken it all, had he hesitated?

But he couldn’t afford the burden of hurting Rhae.

He couldn’t have lived with that either.

He stopped, glancing at Rhaegar, lingering on his breath trembling in the room.

“Do I stop?”, he asked.

Rhaegar shivered but shook his head.

“I’m just...”

“Scared?”, Jon suggested in a low chuckle.

Rhaegar’s eyes seemed lucid. Was he panicking? He breathed nervously and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shook his head again. When Jon put a hand on his cheek, it felt hot, he was burning in embarrassment.

“Should I slow down?”

Rhaegar’s voice cracked.

He lowered his head, stubbornly refusing to talk,

“I can stop. - Jon promised, his voice warm, his hands caressing Rhaegar’s lobes and soft cheeks – If you prefer to just make out, I...”

Rhaegar snapped, and he blurted out, awkward, “It’s not that. - his eyes shone, they stopped on Jon’s and pulled him close, his hands reached for Jon’s shirt collar – You… do know what you’re doing, right?”

Jon scoffed.

The lifted corner of his lips twitched. He hadn’t noticed he was smiling until then.

It was a fever.

A thrilling joy bringing him up and up until his feet couldn’t brush the ground.

“I have no idea. - he whispered back – You go to my head.”

“I feel dizzy.”, Rhaegar confessed.

“Me too. - Jon murmured, his thumb caressing Rhaegar’s lips, running over them, then coming back, slowing down, pressing on the soft flesh – Happy dizzy.”

Rhaegar’s mouth twitched, tilted, almost in a smile.

“Same here.”

Jon felt a laugh choke in his throat. He never dared hope that…

His eyes flickered on Rhaegar’s lips.

“I’ve wanted this for way longer than…”

Rhaegar’s lips closed in a slow whistle, blossoming “Shh… - he whispered – I’m here.”

Jon’s hands then ran on Rhaegar’s thin cotton sweater, he could feel him under: the heat of his skin, the tender firmness of his muscles, the shivering hardness of his nipples.

He pulled it up Rhaegar’s elbows, and the other followed the gesture, throwing it off himself completely, while his hands would then run to Jon’s shirt, trying to pull it off and throw it away with his own.

Jon’s lips were on him, then. Sudden, greedy, voracious.

He would kiss Rhaegar’s chest, peppering it quickly, then ran his tongue over the shade of the ribcage, while his hands would caress and pinch the softness of Rhaegar’s love handles, sifting caresses through the hip lines. Rhaegar threw his head back, bit his bottom lip.

He was not used to being touched there, like that.

Jon’s lips passed over the rose halo of his nipple, licking it, teasing it. Rhaegar gasped, feeling his spine spark and his control hiccup.

Jon’s hands clenched his hips. They almost hurt, but his chest felt so good that every protest died in the wet sheath of his throat.

He could feel Jon’s knuckles tensing and then Jon was squeezing his ass, as if it were some mature fruit he wanted to crack open.

The thought made his cock twitch up and jolt. Then he felt Jon fucking smirking against his nipple, before sucking it like a babe, needy and greedy.

Rhaegar whined, moaned. He found himself stuffing his mouth with his own fist, desperate to keep himself silent. Had his voice always been that high? That wet? That obscene?

He arched his back, finding himself driving his hips against Jon’s hands more, against his touch.

It was going so fast.

He was on a roller-coaster.

He let out an acute, drenched moan, as Jon’s teeth nibbled his nipple sweetly. He rolled his eyes to the ground and felt himself leaking precome desperately, like a teen.

Jon chuckled again, pulling one nipple with his teeth while teasing it with his tongue, while he pinched and twisted the other almost brutally. Rhaegar felt like he was about to trip over his own heartbeat and faint.

He lost his voice.

It didn’t belong to him anymore.

There was an animal inside him, some wanton animal in heat, lost in pleasure, craving more and more, howling lustfully and moaning eagerly.

“Please. - he almost screamed, hoarsely – Fuck, god, fuck.”

Jon smirked at that crave-filled curse, leaving both nipples alone, all of a sudden empty and uncared for. Rhaegar opened his eyes and was about to protest the sudden disappearance, when Jon pinched both of them again, pulling them.

Rhaegar’s eyes filled with tears.

His cock was leaking down copiously.

He let out a cried whimper, raising his eyes to meet Jon’s cocky look; but what he saw was devotion, absolute, utter, foolish devotion, and an almost childish enthusiasm of a man ready to discover his body, to investigate every inch of it, every reaction, to play with him like clay.

He felt warmth radiating from Jon’s fingers as they sank deeper into his flesh, forcing his cheeks apart, making him feel a pleasant stretch run up his ass muscles and climb his nerves.

Rhaegar’s voice tilted.

“Oh, god...”

One of Jon’s hands was still caressing his butt, his mouth again on his nipples, teasing and torturing them, hard and red, but the other hand was travelling slowly behind them… searching for something.

Right, Rhaegar realized, oil.

Some kind of, anyway.

“You keep it under your pillow?”, he asked, feeling weirdly sad.

Jon didn’t seem to go out a lot.

Then again … what did he know? Maybe when he was away so was he.

Jon felt his ears burn up. He didn’t want to admit all the times he masturbated at the thought of Rhaegar sleeping so close to him.

At the fantasy of Rhae standing up, coming under the sheets and sucking his cock obediently and greedily. And thanking him for the drink.

He just shrugged.

But then he felt Rhaegar’s hands pulling and hurting his hair.

“Ouch.”, he cursed.

Rhaegar sank his fingers into the curls and pulled Jon in for a rough kiss, pushing his tongue through Jon’s lips, dragging him through.

He moaned in the kiss and pushed further. Jon closed his eyes, he grabbed Rhaegar by the waist and pulled him close until Rhaegar’s wet, red cock was rubbing against his chest.

Jon felt his own jeans getting too tight and constricting.

He spanked Rhae’s ass, making him jolt and squirm.

He loved that wetly dark thrill his voice had now.

It took his breath away with its obscene grace.

He slapped the butt-cheek again and Rhaegar moaned harder, muffling it poorly and almost chocking on his own voice, his mouth stuffed by Jon’s invasive tongue.

He rolled his eyes back in pleasure.

Jon smiled proudly into the kiss, before breaking it. He took a subtle, cruel happiness in seeing Rhaegar’s lips still puckered, waiting for his again.

But instead he put one hand on Rhaegar’s wrists and pulled them, jerking, and making him fall stomach-down on his lap.

Rhaegar writhed, his hips pulsing from feeling his cock rub against Jon’s legs, his ass up and exposed in the air, feeling suddenly the need to be opened.

Jon’s grasp on his wrists almost hurt, but not in a bad way. It was familiar. And splendid.

Jon hit his ass hard, making Rhaegar scoot and curse.

And spill.

Another hit, then another. Rhaegar’s impossibly hard prick was about to burst, his voice was already hot honey.

Another hit and Rhaegar bit his lips, coming on Jon’s legs, as shame stained his face boiling.

“Your ass is so nice. - Jon murmured, groping it and then slapping it again, right above the opening so Rhaegar felt need echo through his walls – Have you ever gotten spanked before?”

Rhaegar nodded, weakly, sucking his lips.

“Elia? - Jon asked, then shook his head – No, not the type, Lyanna perhaps?”

Rhaegar bit his bottom lip, whimpering and squirming as another hit drove heating flames through his nerves.

“… your daddy?”, Jon asked.

His voice felt un-maliciously wicked, sweetly sharp, as he cut through his truth.

Rhaegar nodded weakly, moaning as Jon spanked him faster and rougher.

He was overwhelmed by how good it felt, how the burn would sizzle on his skin and then stain his face up to the ears with embarrassment.

He sucked his lips, whining, trying to maintain some strength, but he couldn’t.

He was a crumbling hot mess of pleasure.

Jon groped his ass, squeezing, “So soft and round. - another slap, which made his ass wiggle, ripple like rings of water – Look at this.”

Rhaegar muffled a moaned groan.

“This ass is made for this. - he added, with another spank, harder, leaving a handprint mark that made Rhaegar scoot and writhe – God, look at you.”

“Please...”

“More?”

Rhae nodded. Jon obliged, harder and harder, until he bruised him violet like his eyes, Rhaegar’s pupils rolling back in his skull in bliss at every outrageous, humiliating hit and honeyed, fatherly compliment.

“Good boy… - he whispered in his ears – So good and soft.”

Rhaegar panted, labouring to breathe. His whole body was shaking, his cock hard again against Jon’s thighs, his ass burning, his eyes filled with tears.

Jon’s voice came sweeter than balm.

“Feel good?”

His lips brushed against his earlobe, their foreheads rubbing gently like two cats purring.

Rhaegar nodded before letting out a depthless moan, as he felt something fresh and slimy against his twitching hole.

He breathed in, relaxing, listening to his own hunger, while Jon’s lips sweetly kissed the shell of his ear and licked its curve.

Rhaegar relaxed and welcomed the first finger inside him. It felt so hot, a foreign, absolute warmth taking over him.

Jon was hard too, he could feel it against him.

He raised one hip slightly, while not leaving Jon’s lap, as a second finger dug a trench of bliss through him. His fingers trembled, but he managed to unbutton Jon’s pale jeans.

His hands felt crossed by pins, needles and the neon blue of doubt.

It shattered through him all at once.

Jon’s cock was hard and big, standing tall, springing from Jon’s trunks, where a dump stain turned the white almost transparent.

Rhaegar hesitated, swallowed.

He took it between his hands then, while Jon started moving his fingers like scissors in his ass, opening him up for him. For that.

Rhaegar doubted it could even fit: it was not only big, it was thick and heavy between his hands.

And yet, when a third finger moved in, as the tips seemed to brush something inside him, sparks flew out of his nerves and electricity cut him open and needy.

Jon kissed his forehead.

“Don’t do anything you find gross.”

Rhaegar nodded, and started moving his hands up and down, jerking Jon to full hardness while he felt inside him the most shameful and vulgar pleasure growing and dragging wet whines out of his lips.

He stroke Jon, freeing his tip before brushing against the crown of skin, rubbing the head gently, lost in the warmth stirring through him.

Jon bit his lips, bucking his hips lightly against Rhaegar, before the other dared to push his tongue out, tasting the pink saltiness of Jon’s pulsing cock-head.

He wrapped his lips around it, taking it in his mouth, while Jon cooed him, caressing his hair.

“Good boy. - he murmured – Such a good baby.”

Rhaegar’s dick stirred harder.

Jon smiled, “Do you like it when daddy compliments you? You’re doing such a good job.”

Rhaegar let out a choked moan, before trying to take more in. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, but as Jon hit something deep inside him, he whined and cried against the cock, sucking it desperately to muffle his own wanton screams.

Jon’s hand was on his head, petting him, cuddling him, forcing him slightly to swallow more, until Rhaegar felt his throat ache and found himself gagging on it, red-faced and watery-eyed.

Rhaegar’s hips jolted.

That point that Jon was tormenting was set alight.

And in one perfect moment, he felt all aflame and all whole again.

Jon spilled pre-come in his mouth and then Rhaegar coughed out, moving away, parting from the throbbing dick.

Staring at Rhaegar’s wet lips and the way he gasped for air, Jon backed his hands.

He left Rhaegar empty and his hair free.

“I’m sorry… I-”

But Rhaegar didn’t even wait for that, he slammed Jon’s chest down and forced him to lay on his back on the bed.

Rhaegar’s eyes were gleaming indigo and pain.

And craving.

And bliss sat like dust between their hearts.

Rhaegar looked at the lube bottle, gulped down and poured a whole lot – too much, but Jon didn’t dare speak – on Jon’s standing hard prick.

Rhaegar’s breath shattered in the mid-air between them.

It cut. Its shard sunk in their chopped hearts.

And his lips quivered with words he didn’t dare say.

Jon moved his hand to Rhae’s cheek and caressed it slowly, his lips moving, mouthing something mute. He also didn’t have the courage to speak, as if voice could break the enchantment.

Rhaegar’s smile shivered, reading the lips anyway.

“I know.”, he whispered back, a firefly of love in the blue night.

He kept Jon’s cock up and presenting, proud and thick, and he tried to descend on it. He bit his lips.

Fuck.

He didn’t calculate that well.

Jon would have probably stopped him, had he had any mind left, but he was staring, bewildered and enraptured, by the perfection of the scene: Rhaegar’s aching dick throbbing while he tried to fuck himself on his own, his cock impaling that soft ass, the curls of silver glimmering splendid in the night, his voice wet crystal melting in the space, his dreams… his dreams had come to him.

Rhaegar threw his head back, letting out a moan, rolling his hips, allowing Jon inside.

Inch by inch, slowly, deadly slowly, until he could feel all of him burn splendidly, ache blissfully by being filled all over.

He felt an absolute sense of completeness.

Something hollow inside his mind had found its piece.

He moved slow, up and down, trying to get more and more of Jon to fit, but Jon was so big and he was so tight, and it felt half the time impossible but the rest of the time so needed and perfect.

Jon awoke from his heaven, shook his head, and sat up slightly, moving his hands to Rhaegar’s face, caressing his hair, kissing his jawline, cooing him in a sweet voice, with the uttermost tenderest care. He placed one hand on the small of Rhaegar’s back, circling his waist with his arm, as his silver fairytale prince would arch his back, trembling between moans, fucking himself rhythmically with violet and violent sweetness.

He whispered sweet nothings in Rhaegar’s ear, just to see a thin smile paint on his shy face, which he hid in Jon’s shoulder.

“Do you want me to help?”, he asked, the hand on the back starving for grabbing and grasping, for pushing and pulling.

Rhaegar let out a weak laugh.

“If you promise not to wreck me.”

“That’s going to be a hard promise to fulfil.”, Jon jokes. placing his hands on Rhaegar’s hips and helping him to roll them, starting to fuck him, meeting his own thrusts, aiming again at Rhaegar’s sensitive prostate.

Rhaegar moaned, cried, smiling. His head back, pushing over and over, riding Jon, feeling him everywhere.

And that place returning in the sweetest flames.

And Jon sank his face in Rhaegar’s soft chest and muffled groans and grunts, while he’d push and thrust, rougher, harder.

Rhaegar’s hands clutched Jon’s red curls, as he bit his lips to silence.

Jon hit the prostate over and over, driving the other off the edge, vertigo sinking through. He was all in, pulsing, his balls slapping again Rhaegar, claiming him too, taking over him.

Rhaegar screamed then, falling over Jon completely, losing all strength in his legs.

And Jon held him tighter by the waist and screwed harder, ferocious and voracious, in the pitch black madness of his eagerness.

He drove into Rhaegar’s sweetest spot, making him writhe and come, spilling over their chests; and then he bit Rhaegar’s shoulder, suffocating the darkest groan and spending into him, marking him deep.

Rhaegar’s breath tripped, got lost and melted between his ribcage.

He stared at Jon’s chest, where he fell, and wondered if he should have moved away.

Jon gripped him though, mean and possessive, and happy.

Happy as he had never been.

He had given up completely ….

Rhaegar heard him sob of joy, his throat hiccuping in sighs and a metallic laugh, and he kissed Jon’s stubble and neck until the morning surprised them, still entwined and tangled up in silver warmth.

Finally, a home.

 


End file.
